Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Harry Potter
Title: Turning to Black
Warnings: None in this Chapter
Prologue
He could feel the weight of someone else's skin resting in his palm. The wooden door pressed into his back, and he imagined they were holding one another; clinging on for life. He dreamed the other was touching his face, gazing into his eyes, leaning forward to ghost their lips…
"Harry," the voice, melancholy and haunting.
Opening his eyes, Harry revelled in his dream. His fairytale stood with wings of golden light and a halo of fire. The raven-haired boy smiled honestly. He loved her truly, with everything. Stepping forward, Harry bent his head, reaching down to cup her face.
She took a step backwards.
"Harry…" her voice was soft, but somehow reminded the black-haired boy of an oxymoron; laced without regrets.
He realised with a jolt where the meeting was heading.
Green eyes stared out, waiting for the blow he was still only half-expecting. He wanted to say something; ask why, but he knew his voice would fail and so he ignored the question in the redhead's eyes, choosing to look at his feet. He was glad he'd gone with the black shoes; it would be harder to see the tears on the already shiny surface when they fell.
"You knew this could never work out between us, right?" she offered her condolences; they were falsely dripping from the words.
Still, he continued to ignore the red-haired beauty in front of him. He couldn't speak; he was at a loss for words – he'd thought it could work. He'd spent nights making plans for the future – where they'd live, what they'd do…
"Right, Harry? You knew that, right?" the smooth voice hitched up a notch, worried.
Closing his eyes, images flashed across Harry's mind – memories of the time he'd spent with his true love. He knew that if Ginny were ending it now, there'd never be another chance for Harry to be happy. Harry knew he'd always remember the way he shivered when Ginny's hands ran down his sides. The fierce passion and love he'd thought he'd seen in Ginny's deep eyes would forever haunt him. Harry's breath hitched in his throat and he knew he had to leave; he didn't want to cry in front of Ginny if she was unwilling to show that emotion back.
"Yeah. Sure, Ginny. I knew that," he'd wanted to leave it there and swallow back the hysterical screams clawing at his throat, "I knew that we'd never get a house by the sea. And that I'd never come home to see your face smiling at me, and that I'd never hear you whisper sweet nothings my ear. I knew I'd never hold your hand when I'm old…"
Harry's voice wilted away, tears cascading down his cheeks. With a weak half-smile, in an attempt to show Ginny he hadn't meant anything he'd just said, he turned on his heel, opened the door to the corridor and ran.
He'd half hoped Ginny would run after him, screaming 'April Fools' but it was only October. His fairytale, his saviour, his angel, let him go.
If it hadn't been for the furious protests of the Fat Lady, Harry would've carried on running straight into her. He stopped, tears streaming down his face and choked out the password. He knew people he knew had seen him running like a maniac, and yet he didn't care. Desperation for the sanctuary of the dormitory was so much more forward in his mind. When the portrait hole swung open, Harry rubbed his hand across his eyes, dropped his head to the floor and speed walked through the space, planning to go unnoticed.
"Harry, mate!" Ron's voice was a tone of worry that he'd only ever heard his friend use for his… heartbreaker of a sister, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just need to…" waving his hand in the direction of the staircase, the black-haired boy concentrated on making sure his tone was even.
Ron stood up; the green-eyed teen saw it happen out of the corner of his eye. Footsteps followed him up stone staircase and Harry willed them to go away. No matter how long he'd known Ron; no matter how much of a friend he was – Harry didn't want to talk to him. The brother of the girl who'd just wrecked his life? No. He opened the door to the dormitory and dove onto his bed, yanking the red curtains around himself in double quick time.
He knew – he heard himself – he was crying hysterically, but let the illusion form in his mind that he was being simply muffled to the outside world by the cushion he'd pressed to his face.
A/N: Well, that's it for the prologue to this story. R&R as you see fit. :)